“Harold, wait.”
Heather walked quickly down the hallway to catch up with her ex-husband. He slowed and ran a hand across the day-old growth of whiskers on his face. “It’s okay, Heather. I’m just another stranger to him.”
“You’re not a stranger. You’re his dad.”
He reached out and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “No, I’m not his dad. I never was. I might have fathered him, but I’ve never been his dad. Even less so for him than Connor.”
Becoming pregnant had certainly not been part of their high-school plans. Neither was being married. So she was only angry, not surprised, when he announced he had enlisted in the army. He had told her not to worry, claiming that he would send money to care for Connor. And he did—for a while. And he even came home for a few visits during breaks in his first year of training. But once he left for his first year-long deployment to Afghanistan, the phone calls became sporadic, then ceased altogether.
He surprised her by showing up on her doorstep when he returned stateside. He was quieter, more serious, and even talked about a future in Millerton after getting out of the army. They married and moved to Fort Bragg to build a life together. Shortly after that, they received double news—he was being deployed for a second tour, and she was pregnant again.
Afghanistan went poorly for him the second time. The loss of his best friend, Jackson, changed him profoundly. She’d been proud to name her son after a man she barely knew but had heard so much about. But when Harold came home after the second tour, he struggled to use the name and even suggested they change it. They fought often about it. He would storm out of the house and spend the evening drinking with buddies. In many ways, those nights alone were easier for her, because when he was home, he often awoke from nightmares, screaming and sweating.
When she’d finally had enough, she demanded a divorce. To her surprise, he agreed. He moved out of the house and agreed to give her full custody of both boys with only limited visitation rights for himself—only at the house and with her specific permission. He claimed he wanted to be involved in the boys’ lives, but his empty promises usually ended in disappointment. Jaxon was too young to understand, but she knew that Connor felt the sting.
After Jaxon’s disappearance, Harold served several years in prison for drug charges, under a cloud of suspicion about his son. When he returned, he was bitter and struggling, but he seemed determined to be there for Connor. Despite a few slips, he had mostly maintained his sobriety.
“The past is past, Harold. But you’ve worked hard the last few years to build a relationship with Connor. You can do the same with Jaxon.”
His eyes were downcast. “At least with Connor, I had something to rebuild. But with Jaxon… I never really knew the kid. Honestly, if I had passed him in the hallway today without you telling me who he is, I wouldn’t have recognized him.”
She didn’t mention she had barely recognized him herself and shifted the conversation. “Not sure I’ve said it, but… I’m proud of your patience with Connor. Giving him time to come around to you.”
“Time is about all I have to offer.”
“Good. Because time’s what he needs. He’s seen how you’ve changed.”
He turned away. “One hundred sixty-three days. Not even a half year yet sober.”
“And longer than last time. You’ve told me to celebrate the steps. You may have fallen off the wagon twice this year, but that’s better than last year or the year before. I remember whole years you didn’t have two days without a drink.”
“Heather, you don’t get it. I want a drink when I get up in the morning and even more when I go to bed at night. I crave it in a way I can’t explain. I can’t think about anything other than getting through one day, today, without a drink. Then I can say I made it one hundred sixty-four days.”
“And you’ll make it.”
He walked a few steps but stopped and turned around. His hands were shaking, and his face was red—he seemed angry, and she suspected it was directed at himself. He gritted his teeth. “The whole time I was in that room, looking at that boy in the bed, all I could think about was running out and getting drunk. I can taste the beer right now. What kind of father could I ever be to him?”
“You aren’t gonna, are you? You aren’t going to get drunk?”
“I want to. Bad. But… no.” He looked down the hall to Jaxon’s closed room door. “You know why?”
“Because you’re stronger.”
“No. Because I can’t even remember the day Jaxon disappeared. I don’t remember promising to watch the boys. I don’t remember where I was or what I was doing. I don’t remember anything at all except waking up a few days later with some Asheville cop’s gun in my face as he yelled at me to put my hands up.”
“Harold…” She wanted to stop him from going down that path again.
“When they figured out who I was and tried to tell me what had happened, you know what I was worried about?”
“Harold…”
“I didn’t care I was sitting there, buck naked. I didn’t know where I was or who I was with. Worst of all, I didn’t even care my son was missing or they thought I might’ve had something to do with that. Hell, I wasn’t sure I didn’t have anything to do with it because I couldn’t remember. But the one thing I understood? I could see a whiskey bottle sitting on the bathroom sink and a glass pipe on the floor. I wondered if I could have some of either—or both—before they slapped the cuffs on me.”
They stood in silence in the hallway, the nurses at the station watching them warily. Heather took his hand. “That was a long time ago.”
Harold ripped his hand away. “Not for me. For me, it was yesterday. Don’t tell me to forget it, because I don’t want to forget it. It’s the only damn thing that keeps me sober. That”—his hand shook as he pointed down the hall—“and those two boys.”
He turned his back on her and walked to the elevator bank. He pressed the call button and looked at her as the doors opened with a ding. “I’ll be here whenever they’re ready for me. I’ll never make up for what I’ve done, but it’s all I’ve got to offer.”